


Baby Please Don't Go

by kim47



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-27
Updated: 2011-04-27
Packaged: 2017-10-18 17:45:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/191537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kim47/pseuds/kim47
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is leaving, and Sherlock needs to figure out why.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Baby Please Don't Go

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the kink meme [prompt](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/7277.html?view=35919213#t35919213): I want to read a totally clichéd, cheesy, but adorkable romantic comedy version of Sherlock admitting his love for John.

The day that changed Sherlock Holmes’s life forever began with three words.  
 

  


*

  


  


“Sherlock, I’m leaving.”

Sherlock looked up from his pipette, frustrated. John had an incredible knack for interruptting him at the most delicate part of his experiments. Honestly, did the man have no sense of how important Sherlock’s experiments were? He frowned at John, who was leaning against the fridge, a tight expression on his face.

“Mm, okay, makes sure you get milk,” Sherlock said, returning to his attention to his equipment, delicately measuring out 15 millilitres of sodium hydroxide. John sighed.

“No, I don’t mean I’m going out now,” he said. “I mean that, that is, I've been meaning to tell you...”

John’s voice trailed off, the tension in it palpable. Sherlock glanced up quickly, his eyes fixed on John, mind racing ahead, trying to work out John’s next words before he spoke them.

Arms crossed: defensive; jaw tensed: worried. Forehead creased, as it was whenever John was about to give bad news. Something personal?  Eyes steady, though, so he’s sure of whatever it is; hesitancy stems from uncertainty of his reception, not uncertainty in himself, perhaps he's - 

“I’m moving out.”

Sherlock stared. And, for the first time in his life, asked a completely obvious and unnecessary question.  
‘  
“Moving out of where?”

The second the words were out, he winced. Stupid. He wasn’t used to things slipping out involuntarily. John laughed. He rubbed his eyes, then ran his fingers through his hair, leaving strands sticking up at odd angles. His hand rested on the back of his neck.

“Christ, Sherlock, where else? I’m moving out of this flat. Out of London, actually. I’ve been offered a job in Colorado. I’ll be training medics for the armed forces. I’ve always wanted to travel and, well...”

Despite the discomfiting tightigJohn was saying made sense, and Sherlock nodded wisely along as John explained that it was a great opportunity for him, exactly the kind of job he’d love, how he’d feel like he was doing something purposeful. Sherlock could follow his logic perfectly.

“It sounds like an excellent prospect for you, John,” he said, when John had finished and was watching him, a look of apprehension on his face. “I’m pleased for you.”

John was staring at him now, his mouth slightly open.

“You’re happy for me?” he said finally, and his voice had gone quiet and soft, like it did when Sherlock had let him down in some spectacular and unprecedented way. 

“Yes, John,” he said, a touch impatiently. Why did John think Sherlock wouldn’t be happy for him? “I will miss our partnership, naturally, but your talents are certainly well suited to this position, and I’m sure it will be a fulfilling experience for you.”

“Right, sorry, of course,” said John. The tension had left his body now, and he looked smaller, shoulders slumped against the fridge. Sherlock watched him for a moment, uncertain if their conversation was over. He was never sure what he was supposed to say in situations like this. He had offered John his congratulations; was he meant to do so again? To ask John more questions, show more of an interest?

“When do you leave?” he asked. John’s head snapped up, Sherlock’s voice clearly taking him by surprise.

“Three weeks.”

“Ah.”

Sherlock wasn’t sure what else to do, and after a brief silence, he returned to his experiment. He didn’t hear John sigh, push himself upright, and leave.  
 

  


*

  


  
Sherlock sighed and flung off his blanket in frustration. He got out of bed, slipped on his dressing gown, and made his way out to the kitchen.

He couldn’t sleep.

There was a strange sort of irony to it, he mused. Countless times he’d forced his body to keep going, pushing aside its need for sleep and food. And now it was clearly exacting some kind of cruel revenge, because no matter how many times he closed his eyes and rearrange his pillow and his body, he simply couldn’t fall asleep. It was wretched.

Sherlock stared at the kettle. He hadn’t made tea in four years. John had always done it. Sherlock would never admit it, but he was unsure about how best to go about it. now, given that John would be leaving in three weeks, he supposed he had better start learning.

He filled it with water and flicked it on. As he waited for it to boil, he flicked idly through the newspaper lying on the kitchen table. Petty political skirmishes and horribly dull killings. Dull.

The kettle clicked off and the flat was filled with silence. Sherlock shivered. He couldn’t remember ever being so aware of the absence of noise. Usually the thrumming in his head was enough to distract him from any silence outside it. But now there was nothing except this odd, uncomfortable silence.

Shaking his head at this unusually maudlin thought, Sherlock began making his tea.

He failed spectacularly.

After the third attempt (too weak and not enough sugar), he gave up. Embarrassing as it was, he didn’t even know how much sugar he liked.

John always made it perfectly.

He crept back into his bed, feeling worse than when he’d got out of it. Punching his pillow in frustration, he turned onto his stomach and stared out the window.

The sky was just turning pink when he finally drifted off.  
 

  


*

  


  
Two weeks later, at 10:53 pm, Sherlock found himself sitting in the back of an ambulance with a bruised and grinning John Watson, both of them protesting that no, they weren’t actually in shock.

Lestrade sighed.

“Look, guys,” he began, in the tone of a man who has had this conversation before and will have it again, and does not derive one ounce of pleasure from the prospect. “I’m fairly certain this man did not just fall down three flights of stairs and break both his arms by accident. However, since he was, in fact, the rapist we’ve been trying unsuccessfully to catch for ten days, I am willing to not ask too many questions.”

John laughed; Sherlock smiled at the sound.

“An admirable notion, Inspector,” he said, winking at Lestrade. “God, I’m going to miss this,” he added.

Sherlock frowned. Despite knowing for two weeks that John was leaving, he had not been able to grow accustomed to the idea. Every time John mentioned it, he felt an unpleasant jolt in his stomach. It was ridiculous.

“Miss it? You going somewhere, John?” Lestrade asked curiously.

“Oh, I’d forgotten you didn’t know,” John replied, glancing sideways at Sherlock. “Yes, I’m, uh, moving away. To America, actually.”

Lestrade looked shocked, then horrified.

“America? What on earth for?”

“I’ve been offered a job there. At an army base, training medics. Right up my street, actually.”

“And how on earth am I supposed to deal with him,” Lestrade gestured wildly at Sherlock, “without you around?”

Sherlock scowled.

“He’s not my handler, Lestrade,” he snapped. He didn’t want to be discussing this. His head hurt, and his arms were aching, and he was starting to tremble. Maybe he was in shock after all. He looked around for a blanket.

Lestrade, completely unabashed, asked the question again.

“You managed for five years before I came along, didn’t you?” John asked, and Sherlock could hear the mirth sparkling in his voice. John had a remarkable expressible voice. Sherlock could always read far more in it than John’s actual words betrayed. He loved that, love being able to deduce everything about John’s day just from the way said the word ‘Evening’ or ‘Chilly, isn’t it?’ or ‘Sherlock, fuck off, I’ve had a bloody awful day and I am not in the mood to talk to you right now.’ Although possibly even Anderson would have been able to work out that last one.

“Yeah, and I went completely grey at 44.”

John laughed again, longer this time, and it suddenly stuck Sherlock how much he was going to _miss_  this. All of it. Dragging John out of bed at four in the morning to look at an interesting body, Chinese food at three am after they’d caught the murderer, sitting in an ambulance, high on adrenaline and winning, giggling at crime scenes.

Scowl deepening, he stood, and stalked off to hail a taxi.

“You, constable, fetch me a taxi,” he instructed one of the young police officers standing nearby. Hopkins, Sherlock thought his name might be.

“Y-yes, sir,” stammered the officer, his face fixed in an expression of awe.

Sherlock nodded at him briefly before wandering back to where John and Lestrade were still talking. Although they were attempting to keep their voices hushed, Sherlock caught a few of their words before they realised he was approaching.

“ - but I thought the two of you were...” Lestrade finished his sentence with a hand wave, which John appeared to understand, because he shrugged in reply.

“Yeah, so did I. Sometimes, at least. It’s hard to tell with him, y’know?”

Lestrade nodded emphatically.

“I just, I can’t wait forever.” John looked sad and resigned and a little bit hurt, and the sight of it twisted Sherlock’s insides in a way he couldn’t begin to understand.

“Fair enough, mate,” Lestrade said, patting him sympathetically on the shoulder.

John, finally spotting Sherlock over Lestrade’s shoulder, didn’t reply. He smiled at Sherlock instead.

“Ready to go?” he asked, hopping down from the ambulance.

“When you are,” Sherlock returned shortly. The snatch of dialogue he'd overheard made no sense to him, and his headache pound worse than ever.

John did not look at all put out by his surliness, merely turning to Lestrade and sticking out his hand. Lestrade shook it enthusiastically.

“It’s been a pleasure, Doctor Watson.”

“Likewise,” replied John. “Keep an eye on him, hey?” He nudged Sherlock’s elbow.

“Will do,” Lestrade said, and from the expression on his face and John’s answering look, Sherlock felt that an entire conversation had just passed between them that he was not privy to.

“Come on, Sherlock.”

John turned away and began striding towards the waiting taxi, leaving Sherlock to trail, perplexed, in his wake.

  
  


*

  


  
Sherlock reached for the box resting next to the sofa and slapped a fourth patch on his arm. He was going to solve this, dammit, or die trying. Most likely from nicotine poisoning.

The vaguely unsettling feeling that had come upon him from the moment John had told him he was leaving had only intensified with time. Now, the day before John was getting on a plane, Sherlock was a mess. He hadn’t slept in four days, and although he suspected he’d had a cup of tea and a biscuit at some point in the last 48 hours, he wouldn’t testify to it under oath. 

Why was this bothering him so much? Yes, John was his friend, and yes, he liked having someone along on cases, an extra pair of eyes and skilled hands, especially someone who still, after _four years_ , thought what Sherlock did was brilliant. Of course he would miss John, he’d be foolish not to.

And yet he was filled with the overwhelming impression that he was missing something vital. It was all tied to that stupid conversation he’d heard between John and Lestrade and the look on John’s face when he said he couldn’t wait forever. Wait for what?

Growling in frustration, Sherlock leapt off the sofa. He stalked up and down the living room, hands in his hair, willing himself to understand.

Did John really wantto leave? Sherlock thought not, which seemed ridiculous, because John didn’t _have_  to go. No one was making him. But John would get this look on his face, whenever Sherlock did or said something particularly brilliant, or cutting, or just slightly strange, that plainly said he was going to miss this, miss Sherlock. John’s face was almost as expressive as his voice, his emotions clearly displayed for everyone to see. Sherlock could tell that leaving was upsetting him; John had been wandering around the flat morosely as he packed, sighing as he tucked away the little pieces of his life into boxes.

The living room felt strange now, empty and incomplete. Years living together had been more than enough time for them each to impress parts of themselves upon the room; devoid of John’s it suddenly felt different and wrong, not altogether like 221b Baker Street anymore.

The thought of finding another flatmate was repulsive. Sherlock had actually shuddered when John had asked him about it. Thankfully, recent success and John’s budgeting abilities meant that Sherlock had more than enough money to live there alone now. He could probably _buy_  the flat, if he were so inclined. A new flatmate was definitely out.

But even the idea of living here on his own was foreign, uncomfortable. Sherlock, for all his powers of the mind, simply couldn’t imagine what it would be like without John; his puttering in the kitchen, his jumpers strewn around the living room, his godawful two-fingered typing in the background.

Sighing, Sherlock flung himself back onto the sofa, curling up and pulling his dressing gown around him. What did it all mean? John’s sad eyes, Sherlock’s inability to imagine what his life was going to be like after tomorrow, the confused and almost judgemental look in Lestrade’s eyes when he’d told John he’d look after Sherlock?

Brow furrowed, he unpeeled another patch and stuck it on his other forearm. This was clearly a five patch problem.

  
  


*

  


  
When John returned from the pub three hours later (a little farewell do put on by his colleagues) Sherlock was still curled up on the sofa. He stared hazily at John as John took off his coat and hung it up, making his way into the kitchen, blowing on his hands. He glanced over at Sherlock.

“Tea?” he asked, already reaching for the kettle.

“Please.”

Sherlock studied John carefully as he made the tea. He took in his nondescript hair, his strong, compact frame and his dark blue eyes. He watched his familiar, practiced moves around their kitchen. John was slightly tense, Sherlock could see it in the set of his shoulders. And still Sherlock couldn’t work it out.

Sherlock loved mysteries. He loved puzzles. But this one wasn’t _fun._ There was no thrill of deduction, no joy of epiphany; only the dull, cold ache of uncertainty and doubt. Because Sherlock still had no idea, _no fucking idea_ , what the answer was.

John set the tea down in front of him and moved to sit in his own armchair, facing Sherlock. He frowned when Sherlock sat up and pushed up his sleeves as he reached for his tea.

“Sherlock, how many patches have you got on?”

Sherlock shrugged and took a sip. “Not important.”

“You’re wearing five, aren’t you?”

Sherlock didn’t resond. John sighed.

“You know, you’ll miss me nagging you,” he said, letting out an odd half-laugh.

I _will_ miss it, Sherlock realized. How strange.

“Yes,” he said. “I suppose I will.”

He offered John a tentative smile, and was rewarded with one in return. John suddenly leaned forward.

“It’s been good, though, right?” he asked, his voice unusually urgent and his body unnaturally still. “The last four years, I mean. Me, you, this flat, everything.”

“Yes,” Sherlock replied slowly, not entirely sure what John was getting at. There was a strange, loaded undercurrent to his words that Sherlock didn’t quite understand.

“I don’t really want to leave, Sherlock,” John said quietly. He was looking at the floor now, fiddling with a tiny hole in the knee of his jeans.

“Then why are you?” Sherlock snapped. What the fuck was John playing at? Nothing in Sherlock’s life had made sense for the last three weeks, nothing, but this absolutely took the cake.

John’s eyes snapped up, and he stared at Sherlock, a mixture of shame and anger and hurt on his face.

“I have to, Sherlock. I just do.”

“But _why_?” asked Sherlock, wincing at just how pleading it sounded.

John sighed again and dropped his head into his hands.

“I can’t just...I need something else in my life. Here, this...us...it’s too much sometimes, y’know? I feel like I could spend the rest of my life just...waiting. Waiting for...” John looked up, straight into Sherlock’s eyes, as if trying to communicate some unspeakable truth.

“For what?” Sherlock was feeling impatient now. Damn John and his inability to finish a sentence.

“If I have to explain it to you, it clearly doesn’t matter that much,” John snapped. “I just have to do something on my own, do you get it?

“No, I don’t. I don’t get any of it. You said you were leaving, that you had this great opportunity, and I was _happy_  for you, but nothing makes sense now, and you’re talking like this is something being forced on you, and it doesn’t make any fucking sense!”

John laughed, a hollow, bitter sound.

“God, you really don’t, you complete _idiot_ ,” he snarled at Sherlock. “ I can’t believe I’ve been waiting all this time for you to... You know, for such a fucking genius, you really have trouble seeing what’s right in front of you, don’t you?”

“How could I when you’re being so _cryptic_ , when you never finish a thought, when you never just _tell_ me what’s wrong! I’m a genius, John, not a mind reader, for fuck’s sake!”

All the fight went out of John and he slumped back into his chair. Minutes ticked by, stretching out thin and taut between them. Sherlock watched John as he composed himself, slowing his breathing and calming his shaking hands. He’d never been so lost for words, or so desperately in need of them

“John, I -” he began, but John held up his hand in a silent plea for silence.

“I’m going to bed,” John said after a moment, standing. “I should be up early tomorrow. Goodnight.”

As he made his way slowly to the door, Sherlock noticed that for the first time in four years, two months and three days, John Watson was limping.

  
  


*

  


  
When he finally slept, Sherlock’s dreams were strange and restive.

At first it was just disjointed images of John, doing perfectly ordinary things: laughing, reading, eating, just _being._ Sherlock knew John could see him; he would often look up from whatever he was doing and smile at Sherlock. But every time Sherlock tried to reach out and touch him, John would slide further and further away, until Sherlock was running, racing flat out just to keep John in his sight.

Then, suddenly, John was standing in front of him, much too close, so close that Sherlock could see the tiny freckles dusting his nose and the brown flecks in his eyes. John pressed his lips to Sherlock’s forehead, and he was whispering something to him, but no matter how hard he strained his ears, Sherlock couldn’t make out the words. And then John was gone, and Sherlock was sitting in the kitchen at Baker Street, having tea with Mycroft, who was telling him calmly that there had been a mistake, and John had accidentally gone back to Afghanistan instead of America, and oh, that was bad for so many reasons but Sherlock couldn’t think of them, so he glared at Mycroft, who raised his umbrella and seemed about to hit him over the head with it -

Sherlock startled back into consciousness, upright and breathing heavily. He squinted at his watch. 10:24 am. He’d been asleep for five hours, which was rather exorbitant by his natural standards, but given that he hadn’t had a proper nights sleep in nearly three weeks, he still felt justifiably exhausted. He sank back down into the cushions. Just five more minutes would be enough, then he’d be ready to get up, ready to talk to John again.

John.

For the second time in as many minutes, Sherlock bolted upright.

“John?” he yelled.

Silence.

“JOHN?” he positively bellowed.

Silence again, even louder than before.

Cursing, he staggered into the kitchen, searching frantically for John’s flight information. He knew John had put it somewhere in there, he’d mentioned it a week ago, but Sherlock had been in the middle of a very delicate experiment. He was fairly  certain John had mentioned something about a midday flight, but if he could just find the damn information, he’d know for sure.

Surely John wouldn’t just _leave_? Without saying goodbye, without even waking Sherlock up? He couldn’t possibly still be that angry from the previous night’s fight?

“Where is it, where is it, where is it,” he muttered, rifling through the stacks of journals on the kitchen table. Finally, he spied a folder with an airline logo on the front, teetering precariously on the edge of the table. His hand shot out to grab it, but only succeeded in knocking it onto the floor, papers spilling out. Cursing under his breath, he scrabbled after it, gathering the papers haphazardly. He was just about to flick through them when something caught his eye.

Stuck to the fridge, with one of those ridiculous novelty Doctor Who fridge magnets that John loved so much, was a folded sheet of paper, with one word printed boldly on it.

SHERLOCK.

Sherlock reached for it, folder slipping from his hands back to the floor. He unfolded it slowly. It was covered in John’s small, neat writing. Heart pounding inexplicably, he started to read.

 _Sherlock,_

 _I’m sorry about last night. I was tired and angry. You know I didn’t mean what I said, right? The bit about you being an idiot. You’re pretty obviously_ not _an idiot. Well, except about this. And before you accuse me of being cryptic and obtuse, don’t worry, I’m going to spell it out for you this time._

 _It has somehow failed to come to your attention (and you have a lot of attention, Sherlock, you see_ everything, _How did you miss this?) that I have, for quite some time now, been rather incurably in love with you. No doubt this will shock and quite possibly horrify you, but there it is. I’m in love with you._

 _Did you honestly never see it? With the benefit of hindsight, can you see it now? There were times when we’d get home, panting and laughing and high on our own (alright, mostly your) fucking brilliance and it was all I could do not to push you up against the wall and kiss you until you couldn’t breathe. Did you ever notice? I thought sometimes you did, that you_ must _. That you could sense the tension between us as much as I could. That you knew what I felt almost every time you touched me, however innocently or inconsequentially. Fuck’s sake, even Lestrade saw it. Mycroft, too. And so I waited, for a long time, for you to do or say something that showed you felt the same way._

 _I’m honestly not blaming you for anything. It’s not your fault that I’m in love with you (well, it kind of is, but there’s nothing you can really do to change that, is there?) You’re still my best mate, I’d still kill (and die) for you. But right now, I need some time and space, otherwise I am never going to get over you, and that’s not good for me. You can see that, can’t you, Sherlock?_

 _I didn’t think I’d be able to say this to your face, not without also saying something stupid and hurtful and bitter. I didn’t want our last proper conversation for who knows how long to be like that. Please just forget about last night. Delete it. I’m sorry. And I’m sorry for being a coward. People are like that sometimes, okay? A bit broken and a bit scared._

 _It’s not like this is forever. I’ll be back, and you can come visit me, just give me a little time, yeah? We’ll email and text. I’ll let you know when I get there and I expect to hear back from you, you mad wanker. Don’t do anything too stupidly dangerous while I’m gone. I really will miss you._

 _John  
_  
Sherlock sat down. He stared at the note. He read it again.

At least twelve different thoughts were clamouring for his attention. He could feel them buzzing around in his head, and it was so _loud_ , but he couldn’t concentrate; for the first time in his life, he couldn’t get his massive intellect to just _focus_. He was dimly aware of the painful, throbbing beat of his heart that accompanied the pounding in his ears.

For a full minute, he sat there, the thoughts swirling and colliding, slowly percolating down to one, central truth.

John was in love with him.

Taking a deep, shuddering breath, he started to read the letter again, assessing, this time, weighing and judging, extracting every ounce of meaning from every word John had written.

As he read, his mind called up memories and half-remembered thoughts. John laughing as he collapsed against the stairs, another criminal caught, another life saved, looking at Sherlock with wide, shining eyes. John pulling him, dripping and shivering, out of the Thames, demanding harshly that he “never do anything that mind-bogglingly idiotic again,” the fear evident in his voice. John insisting he at least have a cup of tea and a biscuit before he collapsed, practically forcing him to sit down and not letting him up until he was done. John’s smile. His eyes. The odd sensation in his stomach Sherlock experienced every time John traced his fingers softly over Sherlock’s skin, searching for injuries...

He dropped the letter.

It was, he felt, rather unfair for a person to experience two epiphanies in the space of five minutes.

He was in love with John.

However, he was also Sherlock Holmes, and he was not comfortable with epiphanies unless they were the result of a series of observations and logical deuctions.

Very carefully, he picked up the letter and went into the living room. He place it on the coffee table and sat down on the sofa, elbows resting on his knees, fingers steepled beneath his chin. He was going to _think_  about this.

That John was in love with him, he accepted. It appeared to be consistent with Sherlock’s observations, albeit only retrospectively, and it gave a satisfactory explanation for all the things that had been puzzling Sherlock for weeks now. It did seem rather strange to him that John, who was brave and kind and _good_  would be in love with someone like him, but he was forced to acknowledge that the conclusion fit all the facts. The next question was not quite so straightforward.

Was he really in love with John?

Sherlock was not prone to fits of self-examination, but these were exceptional circumstances.

Certainly he liked John. He liked him very much. John was, as many people had pointed out, some rather gleefully, his only real friend. There was something about John that was so very comfortable; he’d slotted right into Sherlock’s life, as if there was a place in it carved out just for him, from the very beginning. He thought Sherlock was brilliant. He also thought Sherlock was mad and irritating and, somewhere deep down, essentially good. And that was it, really. John was the only person he’d ever met who believed, despite so much evidence to the contrary, that Sherlock Holmes was a good man.

It was almost enough, some days, to make Sherlock _want_  to be a good man.

He glanced at the letter again.

Unbidden, the image arose of John doing exactly what he’d said, pushing him up against the wall in the hallway, pressing his lips to Sherlock’s. John taking him, claiming him, making Sherlock entirely his own. Those strong doctor’s hands that Sherlock had always admired on his skin, _everywhere_ , gentle and warm and perfect. Kissing down Sherlock’s neck, mouthing at his collar bones, fingers sliding into his hair and -

Sherlock’s eyes flew open (when had they fallen shut?) Oh. _Oh_. How on earth had he missed this? How could he, the second smartest man in London, have failed to recognise what the heat curling in his belly and the images still flashing behind his eyes meant? That he _wanted_ John, wanted him in his life and in his bed, right this minute and quite possibly forever?

Torn between the exhilaration that always came with revelation and the utter shame of having to have it literally spelt out for him, Sherlock leapt off the sofa. This was _brilliant._  He simply had to find John and... tell... him...

“Fuck!”

Sherlock dashed into the kitchen, sweeping up the folder containing John’s flight information. The urgency he’d experienced before was a mere shadow of what he felt now. It was absolutely imperative that he get to John before he got on that plane.

He scanned the sheet of paper rapidly, searching for the departure time. 11:55. Sherlock glanced at his watch. 10:56.

“Fuck!”

Sherlock raced out of the kitchen and dove for the sofa, searching desperately for his phone. It’d be okay, he assured himself. He’d just call John and tell him not to get on the plane, that it was an emergency. John always understood when something was important. And then he’d go and find John and tell him that -

His hand closed around something hard and cool. He yanked it out from under the cushion.

“Fuck!”

Sherlock stared at his phone in horror as it declared “Battery empty” and winked off. Surely not, oh God, please no. It would need at least ten minutes charging to be usable.

He stood in the centre of the room, wracked with indecision. He could stay, charge his phone, and try and call John before he boarded his flight. But what if his phone was off already? What if it was engaged? He imagined sitting here, listening to John’s phone ring out again and again. It would drive him mad.

Or he could try and get to the airport in time to catch John. It would take at least thirty five minutes to get to Heathrow from Baker street. He looked at his watch again. 10:58. Fuck fuck fuck. John would be likely be boarding in thirty minutes or so. But action, even frantic, panicked action, was better than nothing.

Decision made, Sherlock grabbed his wallet and ran for the door.

  
  


*

  


  
He had no trouble hailing a taxi.

“Heathrow!” he demanded as he leapt into the black cab. “If you get me there in under half an hour I’ll give you a hundred quid.”

The cabbie, bless him, looked entirely unfazed, merely nodding his head once in the rearview mirror and setting off at a brisk pace.

Sherlock leaned back and closed his eyes. He tried to choke down the panic he could feel rising, threatening to totally overwhelm him. What if he didn’t get to John in time? True, there was nothing stopping him emailing John, telling him everything. But Sherlock was afraid; he was afraid that once John was there, once he’d seen, felt and touched his new life, that maybe he wouldn’t _want_  to come back.

Sherlock knew he was a difficult man to live with. He knew John was frustrated and irritated at him just as often as he was amazed by him. And despite what John’s letter had said, Sherlock couldn’t shake the feeling that this was John reaching his breaking point, that he couldn’t handle it anymore. For the first time in his life, he desperately hoped he was wrong.

  


  
The cabbie made it to Heathrow in 28 minutes, a feat Sherlock deemed worthy of a rather more than a hundred pounds. Flinging the money through the window, he raced through the huge glass sliding doors. 11:31. Technically, John could have already boarded his flight, but Sherlock suspected John would be one of the last to board. He doubted John relished the thought of sitting more or less motionless in a seat for hours on end; he would probably put it off until the last minute, Sherlock assured himself.

He sprinted down the shiny, brightly lit concourse, past interminable shops and cafes and _people_. God, the people were driving him insane. They were everywhere, great, rolling masses of humanity, shopping and talking and eating and generally _being in the way_. Sherlock despised every last one of them for making him dodge around them, making him twist and weave his way though the crowds, for every second making it more and more likely that he wasn’t going to get to John in time.

And, oh fuck, he hadn’t even thought about having to go through security. But now a check loomed ahead of him, and Sherlock seriously contemplated simply jumping the barriers and bypassing it completely. After a moment’s contemplation, however, he decided that he didn’t particularly relish the idea of being tackled to the ground by a security team and forced into an interview room and cross examined for hours. Sighing heavily, he stepped into line behind a grey-haired woman clutching her handbag. She moved slowly and shakily, patting down her pockets in confusion, and if she didn’t hurry up and find that last bit of metal concealed somewhere on her person, he was going to prove Donovan right and he _would_  be standing over a dead body, and oh God, it was 11:37 now and John would have to board in the next five minutes and -

His increasingly panicky train of thought was arrested by the sight of a security guard gesturing him forward, a slight frown on his face. This set off a whole new series of panicky thoughts, but he calmly stepped towards to the man.

“Sherlock Holmes?”

“Ye-es,” Sherlock replied, cautious and curious in equal measure. The man nodded and said something indecipherable into the walkie-talkie clipped to his shoulder. He turned back to Sherlock.

“Go ahead, sir. You won’t be stopped again.”

Sherlock gaped at him for a moment, completely non-plussed. Then,

“ _Mycroft_ ,” he whispered, awed. He shot the man a dazzling, genuine smile before he dashed through, and fucking hell, he was never going to tease Mycroft about his diet again, if this worked out. Or not for a month, at the very least.

Another three minutes, running flat-out, brought him, finally, to Gate 43. There were people everywhere; people queuing to board, people hugging and kissing goodbye, and he was never going to find John in this mess.

“John!” he yelled desperately.

Nearly everyone within a twenty-foot radius turned to stare at him, and he glared at them.

“Are any of you called John? No? Then kindly piss off,” he snarled, causing most of them to avert their eyes. Then, again, he called “John!”

At least six men looked back at him again, one saying tentatively,

“Um, yes?”

“Oh, for fuck’s -” They wouldn’t have this problem if John had been the one calling for _him_ in a crowded airport.

He leapt up onto the nearest seat, and yes, that was much better. He caught sight of a familiar black jacket just disappearing through the gate, and he felt his insides twist, his hands start to tremble and his heart was hammering in a way that had nothing to do with having how far he'd just run.

“JOHN WATSON,” he bellowed, and _everyone_  turned to stare at him.

A sense of pure, helpless relief flooded over him when John’s head poked out from around the passageway.

“Sherlock? What the hell are you doing here?” John demanded, striding towards him. Sherlock jumped off the seat and rushed towards him, grabbing him by the arms as soon as he was in reach, desperate to feel John’s solid weight under his hands, to be physically reassured that John was still here.

“Oh God, John, thank goodness,” he breathed, clutching at John so tightly that he had to be hurting him.

John was staring at him, wide-eyed, clearly confused by Sherlock’s admittedly bizarre behaviour.

“Um, Sherlock?” he said, tentatively this time. “Is there something wrong?”

Sherlock shook his head. His heart was still pounding, he could hear it in his ears, and he felt like he was drowning; the adrenaline was pumping through his blood, making it sing, unaware that he no longer needed it. John did not look reassured, but he said gently,

“Um, that’s good? Except, I kind of have a plane to catch, so if you wouldn’t mind filling me in on why you’re here and why you’re cutting off the circulation to my arms, that’d be great.”

Sherlock opened his mouth. He closed it again.

Somehow, in the midst of his manic running, between all the yelling and dodging, he’d completely failed to figure out what he was going to say to John once he found him. And now he was staning here, completely speechless and utterly terrified because it had to be _perfect_. He needed the exact, magical combination of words to convince John to stay, to leave the airport with him, come back to Baker street and never leave again. And right now, Sherlock’s mind was blank.

He stared at John, took in his blue eyes, his forehead currently crinkled in confusion, his broad, strong shoulders, his delightfully perfect jaw. He could feel the panic welling up again, because there was no way that this ridiculous, wonderful man standing infront was going to choose _him_ , not after everything Sherlock had put him through for four years, not after Sherlock had completely failed to see what was right in front of him. Not when he had a whole other life waiting for him, one free of Sherlock’s moods, his experiments and his complete failure at basic human interaction.

“Hey, hey, Sherlock, what is it?”

John was rubbing Sherlock’s arms now, clearly alarmed by the terror he saw painted on Sherlock’s face.

“Stay,” Sherlock blurted out.

“What?”

“Stay. Don’t leave. Don’t go to Colorado. Come back with me.”

John sighed.

“Sherlock, I can’t, you know I can’t.”

“No, you can, you can, John. Don’t leave me, please.”

“Sherlock - ”

“I don’t know what to do without you.” Sherlock flinched,hating the way his voice sounded, small and afraid.

“Sherlock, for god’s sake, not everything is about you!”

John looked a little angry now, and he had taken a step back, his hands falling from Sherlock’s arms to clench at his sides.

“What? No, John, I - ”

“So you’ll have to make your own tea for once and there’ll be no one around to tell you you’re brilliant. Grow up, Sherlock, think about someone else for once in your life.”

People were blatantly staring at them now, clearly enthralled by the drama unfolding in front of them. And John wasn’t finished yet.

“I’m sorry that my feelings are such a massive inconvenience to you, Sherlock, but you’ll just have to - what the fuck are you doing?!”

Sherlock had taken two steps forward and closed the gap between them, bringing his hands up to firmly grasp the sides of John’s head, to hold him steady so that Sherlock could look straight into his eyes.

“Stay,” he said again, and kissed him.

For a moment, it was perfect; John’s lips were exactly as warm and soft as Sherlock had known they would be, and Sherlock could get lost in this, in John’s scent and taste. And then John was shoving him back, his eyes flashing.

“Fuck’s sake, Sherlock, you can’t just give me what you think I want, just to make me stay and - “

“John,” Sherlock said, and he knew his voice was desperate and pleading, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. “Stop talking. I’m going to talk now, and I’m going to do it slowly because I’ve never done this before, and I’m not sure I know how, and because you are not very good at listening. Okay?”

John still looked angry and suspicious, but he nodded reluctantly.

“Good. Okay, then.” Sherlock took a deep breath. Words. Right. He could do this. “I love you.”

John’s eyes widened almost comically and he opened his mouth to speak, but Sherlock shook his head.

“No. I’m not done. I love you, John Watson. I am _in_ love with you. You were right, in your letter, and I’m sorry. I should have seen it earlier. But I see it now. I can’t stand the thought of going back to our flat, and it not being ours anymore. I don’t want any kind of life which you are not a part of, and if you get on that plane and leave, I’m not going to be okay. Not for a long time, possibly forever. I need you to come back with me, so I can take you to bed and learn everything about you, and we can start again, but better this time. I’m sorry for being an idiot, I’m sorry for not understanding what I felt, and I’m sorry that this is what it took. I just - " he faltered, and dammit, he had been doing so well. “I love you."

By the end of his speech, his eyes had dropped to the floor, and he cursed himself for a coward, but he simply couldn’t bring himself to look John in the eye and wait for his reaction. Because if he shook his head, if he said “I’m sorry,” if he -

He felt John’s fingers curve around his jaw and tilt his head back up.

John was smiling now, and shaking his head a little in wonder and disbelief. His eyes were bright and shining and Sherlock could see _everything_  in them, everything that he’d been hoping for so desperately.

“Took you long enough,” was what John said, sliding his free arm around Sherlock’s waist and tugging him closer. Sherlock laughed.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, leaning forward until his forehead was touching John’s, his arms wrapped around his shoulders. “I’m here now.”

“Yes,” John breathed, and tilted his face up, taking Sherlock’s lips in a fierce, joyful, glowing kiss. Sherlock could hear the universal “Aww” from the crowd surrounding them, a few people even starting to clap, and in a minute he was going to glare at them and tell them to piss off, fucking voyeurs. But not right now, because right now John was kissing him like Sherlock was the best thing in the world and completely his. He kissed him back with equal enthusiasm, licking his way into John’s mouth and claiming him for his own.

After a long moment they broke apart, and Sherlock buried his face in John’s neck and _breathed_ for what felt like the first time in hours, possibly weeks. He could feel John’s stubble against his cheek and John’s warm breath on his collar bone. John’s hands rubbing aimless circles on his back. His heart beating against Sherlock’s chest.

John eventually pulled away, and Sherlock made a small noise of discontent. He wanted to stay pressed against John forever, thank you very much, and what on earth could John be thinking? John laughed and reached for his hand and tangled their fingers together, his eyes holding a thousand unspoken promises.

“Let’s go home,” he said.

  
  



End file.
